04-05-2009, 10:22 PM
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Sitting in his study, swords crossed on the wood-panelled wall behind him, Bane poured himself another glass of scotch and eyed the paper he was writing. Even through his glasses, it looked a little blurry, and he wondered if it meant his eyesight was getting worse. It was something he worried about. Downing the last of his dinner, he shoved back the seat he was sitting in and stood. It was then, when the world reacted a little slower than it should have, that he realised how much he'd gone through. So much for an early night tonight. Restless, he went for a walk. The bottle went with him. He knew a place some ways away from here, a place that seemed so far above the world. His feet took him there and Bane didn't fight. He never fought. He knew better -- it is written. The old building (god knows what it had been) wasn't the destination, but he found his way easily to the roof, sitting comfortably with his legs over the edge. He lit a cigarette as he sat there, savouring the taste he had gone so long without, but had never quite forgotten. The night felt peculiar, the air was whispering words he couldn't quite hear through the noise in his head. He waited, with the quiet acceptance of a man who knew better, for something to change. |